What she hadn’t told Renzo the night before was that she’d once wanted to be a dancer and had taken lessons. She’d given it up when she’d realized she had only a modest talent, but she still loved to dance, and suddenly the legacy of her training had kicked in. She could manage the fastest speeds, the most intricate steps, and men were soon queuing up to partner her.

One, a Frenchman called Marcel, was her equal. Together they hurled themselves about the floor, twisting, writhing, together and apart, while the others stopped dancing to stand back and watch.

They were Spanish dancers, clicking imaginary castanets, gazing passionately into each other’s eyes. Then the rhythm changed, became rock ’n’ roll, and he began to fling her up and around his shoulders. When the music crashed to a finish, she was lying back in his arms in a theatrical simulation of abandon. The applause was loud.

Marcel gave her a neat bow and set about turning his advantage to gold with the ladies who were converging on him. Slightly breathless, she smiled at her next partner, approaching her with his hands outstretched. But he was eased determinedly out of the way by Renzo.

‘Boss’s privilege,’ he said. ‘Mandy, I can’t compete with your last partner, but I’ll do my best.’

‘Suppose I don’t want to dance with you?’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said with mock gravity. ‘I have to distribute my favours equally. You’re the only one left, and I can’t have you being a wallflower, can I?’

‘Wallflower? Me?’

But his eyes were gleaming with fun, and she thumped his shoulder lightly.

‘Cheeky so-and-so,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why anyone puts up with you.’

‘I’m irresistible, hadn’t you heard?’

‘No, and if I do hear, I’ll tell them different.’

‘That’s my girl.’

Renzo drew her close, sighing dramatically in a way that made her want to giggle. The music had become a waltz, and as he guided her smoochily around the floor she realized that she was being stared at again, this time with envy.